


Coming Home

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blackmail, Divorce, Drama, F/M, HP: EWE, Humor, Marriage, Post-Hogwarts, Remix, Romance, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:58:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is lovelier the second time around, so the old song goes. Hermione is counting on the truth of these time-honoured words.</p><p>Written for Round Three of the Dramione Couples Remix on LJ. My chosen couple: Tracy Lord and C.K. Dexter Haven, from the 1940 romantic comedy classic, "The Philadelphia Story."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The day that the announcement appeared was sharply chill and bright, a picture-perfect Sunday morning in mid-November. 

Managing editor and publisher Rita Skeeter had decided that The Daily Prophet would devote a sizeable portion of its society page to this particular announcement, circulation numbers being as abysmal as they currently were. As a result, the entire centre section was blocked off, leaving room for both a generous amount of text and an especially large colour photograph of the happy couple. 

Forks and coffee cups halted abruptly en route to their owners’ mouths as readers throughout the wizarding community took in the news. 

Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley were to be married in six weeks’ time. 

 

 _It is with great pleasure,_ the announcement read, _that Philip and Helene Granger of Banbury, Oxfordshire, announce the engagement and forthcoming marriage of their daughter, Hermione Jean Granger-Malfoy, née Granger, to Mr. Ronald Bilius Weasley, son of Arthur and Molly Weasley of Ottery St Catchpole, Devon. Currently, Ms. Granger-Malfoy works as the Ministry’s community liaison, Department of Muggle Affairs. Mr. Weasley is a sports reporter for this publication. A December wedding is planned._

 

In a flat in Bloomsbury, Draco Malfoy scanned the page, his expression momentarily unreadable. Then, eyes darkening, his lip curled in disdain. “‘It is with great pleasure,’” he parroted, and then he laughed. It was a singularly mirthless sound. “Hah. And relief, no doubt.” 

Rolling up the newspaper, he sent it flying in the direction of the small wastebasket by the desk and then flopped down on the sofa, an arm flung over his eyes.

*

In the lavishly appointed drawing room in which the Malfoys customarily took their late-morning coffee, Lucius jubilantly pressed the open newspaper into his wife’s hands.

“There! You see? No chance whatsoever of a reconciliation now. Capital piece of news. Excellent. Now, perhaps, he will finally be more receptive to the idea of a match with the Greengrass girl. A far more suitable alliance and long overdue, I am sure you will agree.”

Narcissa Malfoy remained silent. Despite a perfunctory nod in her husband’s direction, her expression was curiously cryptic. This went unnoticed, however. With a satisfied sigh, Lucius Malfoy had already buried himself in the financial pages and wouldn’t surface for quite some time.

*

In a considerably more modest house on the outskirts of Oxford, Philip Granger was happily tamping down a plug of fragrant tobacco in his favourite pipe when his wife Helene bustled into the sitting room, a rolled-up newspaper in her hand. Shaking it open, she scanned it quickly.

“It’s from Hermione. Her owl just delivered it. It’s the announcement, it must be! Oh! There it is, and goodness, doesn’t she look lovely!” Beaming, she thrust the newspaper into her husband’s lap and then pointed excitedly.

Philip Granger nodded absently, mouthing his pipe. “She does indeed. I just hope...”

“What, dear? What were you about to say?” Helene’s face clouded over and she peered at her husband anxiously.

“Only that I hope this one is a keeper. After that disastrous first marriage... well, I just want her to be happy this time around, that’s all.”

His wife nodded soberly. “Of course you do, Philip. We both do. But she seems much more settled this time, don’t you think? That first time... they were kids, weren’t they, not even out of their teens. And it was so unlike Hermione, running off like that, and with a boy so completely unsuited to her in every possible way.”

“I don’t know, Helene. Who’s to say who is well suited and who isn’t? I liked Draco. He seemed to bring something out in her, a certain... I don’t know... lightness. A radiance of spirit, I would say. When she got off her high horse, that is. No, now Helene,” he remonstrated, seeing his wife’s expression. “You know it’s true. Our daughter isn’t always the easiest person to get along with at times. And just because his background was different –”

Helene Granger gave a quick, unladylike snort of laughter. “ _Different?_ That’s quite an understatement. His sort of wealth and privilege creates a different breed altogether. Draco Malfoy wasn’t for our Hermione. What she needs is somebody far more –”

“Steady? Level-headed? Feet firmly planted on the ground?” _Ordinary?_ he thought to himself. “Yes, so you’ve said.” Frowning slightly, Philip turned his head away, his final words nearly inaudible. “I’m not so sure.”

*

In the Burrow, the extended Weasley clan were gathered around the long farmhouse table for brunch, noisily passing large plates heaped with rashers, eggs, and buttered toast. Ginny and Harry sat on either side of their three-year-old son Tristan, who banged happily on the table with his spoon despite repeated admonishments from his harried parents, howling his displeasure when his efforts to paint his shirt front with bilberry jam were firmly thwarted.

“Now, Ginny,” her mother tutted, clucking her tongue. “You really mustn’t become quite so upset over little things like that. He’s just a little boy, after all. Children must be allowed to express themselves.” With a small shrug, she smiled benignly at her daughter, who forced a tiny, grudging smile in return.

“Take it easy, Gin,” Harry whispered, patting her hand under the table. “She means well.”

“Right.” Ginny rolled her eyes, letting out a small, exasperated sigh. “Amazing, though, how her tune has changed now that she’s a grandmother. Trust me, she wouldn’t have put up with Trissie’s nonsense from any of _us._ ”

Just then, there was a sudden, explosive noise at the window. Everyone turned to see a small owl, dazed and a bit confused, tottering outside the pane of glass, a newspaper in his beak.

“Errol. Bloody bird,” Ron chortled, rising from his chair amidst laughter from around the table. “It never fails! I’ll get it, Mum, don’t trouble yourself.”

With a push, the casement window swung open and Ron reached out, snagging the newspaper, now a bit worse for wear from its journey.

Dropping back into his seat the table alongside Hermione, he shook the paper open, turning pages quickly and muttering to himself.

“Where’s the fire, Ronnie?” George chuckled. “What d’you reckon is in there, anyway?”

“Big article of mine on the Cannons’ new seeker. All right, all right, go ahead and laugh, you lot!” he protested, grinning lopsidedly in the face of a host of hoots and teasing jibes. “Took me three whole days to write that thing. One of my best yet.”

“ _And?_ ” 

All heads turned in Hermione’s direction. She smiled sweetly and waited.

“And... what?” Ron was genuinely mystified.

Patiently, Hermione took the newspaper from him and turned to the society page, one finger pressed to its centre. “ _That._ ” 

“Oh, yeah... right. Sorry, love, must’ve forgot,” Ron muttered sheepishly.

Ron’s recollection seemed to spark an abrupt memory trigger for the female members of the family as they realised what “that” meant. Galvanised into action, Ginny and her mother leapt from their chairs, hovering behind Hermione’s so as to get a look at the announcement and the accompanying photo.

Large and colourfully lifelike, it showed the young couple gazing at each other in what appeared to be a park, their hands clasped. 

“Oh, what a lovely photo, Hermione dear!” Molly enthused, clapping her hands together delightedly. 

“Oi! I’m there too, yeah?” Ron waved at his mother, an apple scone in hand, and then licked his palm where the dripping jam had left a sticky, crimson trail. 

“Of course you are, Ronald dear. Don’t be silly.” Molly turned to her husband and beamed as she held up the newspaper. “Arthur, isn’t it a perfectly lovely photo of the two of them?”

“Very nice indeed, yes,” Arthur Weasley replied, smiling dutifully as he forked up a mouthful of scrambled eggs. All this folderol was the domain of females, and quite honestly, it was much simpler just to humour his wife, daughter, and future daughter-in-law and agree with everything they said. That way, the degree to which the nonsense would impinge upon his life would be minimised. At least, he fervently hoped so. And then he thought of Philip Granger and had to stifle a small, rueful chuckle. Poor sod. As the father of the bride, he’d be having it far worse, no doubt.

It really was rather a good picture, Hermione had to admit. The sky was a brilliant blue without a single cloud, and the birds twittering in the trees behind them made for an exceptional backdrop, what with the recent addition of sound to wizarding photos. And that hunter-green frock really did wonders for her figure and her colouring. It had been a marvellous purchase, expensive but worth every Galleon. She’d only worn it once before, and after that, it had hung rather forlornly in her wardrobe for quite a while. Until, that is, she’d shaken herself out of the doldrums she’d been stuck in and given herself a firm talking-to about the idiocy of attaching absurdly sentimental feelings to items of clothing, to the point that a perfectly lovely frock would go to waste just because… well, just because. Any prior association was in the past now, just as much in the past as the man who’d bought her the frock.

Ignoring the slight shiver that travelled down her spine like the press of a chilly finger, Hermione turned to Ron, mustering a wide smile.

“Come on, let’s look at our presents, shall we? We’ve simply _loads_.”

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

15 December  
Friday afternoon

 

“What the bloody hell was she thinking, giving us an assignment like this? If I know anything about Hermione Granger, she won’t want us within a mile of her precious wedding! No way.”

The young, black-haired woman paced about the anteroom, continuing to mutter to herself. Her boss’s door remained shut, but there would be an audience with her before much longer. Cormac McLaggen sat on the leather sofa, watching her with a studied calm that was in marked contrast to his colleague’s agitation.

At last, he opened his mouth to reply, lifting his shoulders in an indolent shrug. “Relax, Parkinson. You’re sending yourself spare. It’s just a job. We’ll get in, do what we’re being paid to do, and get out. Forget Granger. If I know anything about our _boss_ , she’ll have found a way to wangle us entrée into that wedding. What the hell has got your knickers in such a twist, anyway? Since when do you actually care what Hermione Granger thinks? You seem almost angry about this.”

Pansy Parkinson’s head whipped around and she glared at Cormac. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped. “It’s just that I can’t be arsed wasting my time with an assignment that’s plainly pointless.”

Cormac grinned knowingly. “Could have fooled me.” Standing, he stretched and then sauntered over to their boss’s office door. “Come on, then,” he sighed. “Let’s get this show on the road. I’ve got places to be.”

*

_The previous afternoon–_

_The surface of Rita Skeeter’s desk was a maelstrom of papers stuffed into folders that rose in several teetering piles, obscuring most of the workspace. Additional papers erupted from drawers that balked tenaciously at efforts to close them. As often as her secretary attempted to organise everything, such efforts would be thwarted by Skeeter herself, who seemed to thrive in the chaos she had created for herself. However, there was a sense, taking it all in, that as much disarray as there was, Rita Skeeter had her finger on the pulse of everything that was happening, was about to happen, or had never happened but was sufficiently eye-catching and prurient that readers would wish it had._

_Draco Malfoy noted all of this as he waited for her to appear. He’d made an appointment to see her and she’d agreed, but he’d been kept waiting for some time and he was growing impatient. The matter at hand was important and he didn’t have all day._

_Just then, the door to the inner office opened and Rita Skeeter beckoned to him with a bright, crimson-painted smile, her platinum hair impeccably coiffed, like a helmet. Not even a monsoon could muss it._

_“Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy,” she gushed, extending her hand to him and then seating herself behind the desk. “Do please excuse the mess. I have asked my secretary time and again to get my files in order, but she just can’t seem to get the hang of it. Never mind.” Laughing musically, she sat back and folded her arms, her gaze fixed intently on his face, eyes glittering. She looked... hungry. Rather like a cobra sizing up what might prove a particularly tasty lunch. “What was it you wanted to see me about? It sounded quite urgent.”_

_“Yes, well, I believe it is. It’s come to my attention that you intend to publish an article concerning Arthur Weasley.”_

_Rita Skeeter’s eyebrows rose slightly, her smile growing faintly venomous. “I do not allow editorial policy to be dictated by third-party interests. What I publish in this newspaper is not your affair, Mr. Malfoy.” She stood, her smile brittle. “Thank you for coming. I believe you know the way out.”_

_Draco remained unmoving. “I do. But I’m not going anywhere. Sit down, Ms. Skeeter. We have things to discuss.” He smiled, a humourless show of very white teeth. “I believe I have a proposition that will interest you.”_

*

Cormac McLaggen knocked, waited for Rita Skeeter’s warbling “Enter!” and then pushed the door open. Pansy trailed behind him, her expression plainly dubious, stopping in her tracks when she spotted Draco already seated inside.

“Ah! Sit down. I believe you all know each other, yes?” Without waiting for a response, she chattered on. “”Of course you do. You were all in the same year at Hogwarts, were you not?”

Draco inclined his head, a faint, amused smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. “McLaggen. Pans.”

“Draco! What in Merlin’s name are _you_ doing here?” Pansy was plainly surprised now. Dropping down into one of the vacant chairs, she stared at him, her mouth open slightly, and then her eyes narrowed. “What’s this all about?”

Cormac couldn’t help chuckling. “Brilliant touch, bringing in the ex-husband. Why am I not surprised? Got some dirt you want to dish about your ex-wife, Malfoy? I’m all ears.”

“Mr. Malfoy is your ticket into this wedding,” Rita Skeeter cut in sharply, focusing her attention on her reporter and photographer. “Never mind why or how. That’s not your concern. He will accompany you to the Weasley enclave the day before the ceremony for interviews with the bride and groom and various family members, candid photos, the lot. And then, of course, you will cover the wedding itself. I want the inside scoop on all of it, beginning to end. No holds barred. This is the wedding of the decade and we’ve got an exclusive.”

“When is all this happening?” Pansy asked quietly. All at once, she seemed markedly subdued, so much so that both Cormac and Draco glanced at her curiously. 

Rita Skeeter didn’t seem to notice, however. She was too busy thumbing through the hornet’s nest of papers on her desk. Finally, she pulled one sheet in triumph from a folder that had been partially buried. 

“Ah, yes! Here we are! The wedding...” Her voice trailed off as she quickly scanned the page, her eyes dropping down and then fixing on a section of the print in the centre. “... is in a week’s time. Next Friday, the twenty-second, at four o’clock in the afternoon. A Solstice wedding. It’s to take place at The Rose and Chalice –” 

“Right, yeah, that new place. Across the road from Gringott’s, isn’t it?” Cormac nodded. “I’ve been there a couple of times. Rather posh. Surprising choice, I should think, considering the groom’s side of the family. I’d have thought they’d prefer something a bit more...”

“Simple?” Draco’s mouth twitched. “Something more along the lines of, say, The Leaky? Pints all round and all the pasties you can eat?” 

Cormac let out an amused snort. “Well, maybe not quite that simple, but yeah… something a bit less formal, anyway.”

“Formal or not,” Rita informed him sternly, her gaze sweeping to Pansy and then back to Cormac, “the two of you are going to document every detail right down to how often the bride goes to the loo. I want interviews, loads of photos, something…” Here, her expression turned positively conspiratorial. “… that will blow the lid right off the Weekend Society and Styles page.”

“The more sensational the better, no doubt,” Pansy remarked sourly. 

Rita Skeeter laughed in response, a light, musical tinkle that was oddly grating. Draco looked away, his mouth tightening and a small muscle pulsing in his jaw. 

“Naturally,” the newspaper executive replied blithely. “Readers expect more than just the basic facts. They want to be titillated. They want to know that even the well connected or those with some sort of celebrity status are people with flaws and secrets, just like everybody else. If you can dig up a juicy little secret or two, so much the better. There’s a tidy bonus in it for both of you if you do.”

“Nothing like a little bribery to sweeten the deal,” Cormac muttered, looking suddenly as if he had bitten into something very nasty.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it that,” his boss said lightly. “Simply a bit of _incentive_ , shall we say. Now then, off you go. I shall expect daily progress reports by Floo or owl.”

Cormac and Pansy rose from their seats in unison, filing silently out of the office, but Draco lingered.

“Is there something further, Mr. Malfoy?” The journalist-cum-publishing mogul leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “I believe we have concluded our business for the time being, have we not?”

Draco’s voice was quiet and deadly calm. “Let’s get something very clear, shall we? If you even _think_ of double-crossing me, I will ruin you _and_ this newspaper. And you know I can do it.”

Rita Skeeter smiled basely. “Oh yes. You’ve got your all-powerful Daddy’s muscle behind you. You know, I wouldn’t have expected you to care quite so much about your ex-wife’s future father-in-law, particularly when there has been so much bad blood between your family and the Weasleys over the years. But perhaps…” Here, she tapped a long, scarlet fingernail against her lip thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s not really about Arthur Weasley at all. Perhaps it’s something far more basic and close to the bone. Not to worry, Mr. Malfoy. I have no intention of double-crossing you. If you deliver your end of the bargain, I shall keep to mine.” 

Watching his retreating figure disappear out the door of her office, she slowly drew her fingertips together, their long, varnished nails clacking rhythmically, and smiled once again. 

It was the smile of a shark.


	3. Chapter 3

16 December  
Saturday lunchtime

 

Hermione drummed her fingertips against the tabletop irritably.

The Camera Café in Muggle London’s Bloomsbury was a surprising choice for a meeting, given that it had been her ex-husband’s idea. And now he was late. Fashionably so, he would no doubt say, with a flash of that rakish smile that he knew damned well was so appealing. Late, and wasting her valuable time. There were about a million things that needed doing today, and she’d got them all neatly outlined on a checklist. That list was very nearly burning a hole in her purse at this point, and the beginnings of a tension headache had begun throbbing in her right temple.

From her table, she had a view of the large plate-glass window looking out on Museum Street and beyond, the British Museum. Pedestrian traffic was fairly busy for midday on a Saturday, what with shoppers and strollers and a steady stream of tourists thronging the pavement as they poured in and out of the museum and scouted the area for a place to sit down and get off their feet.

With all the passers-by, Hermione had all but given up trying to spot the familiar blond head, but then, abruptly, there it was. Draco peered in through the window, his breath forming a small, steamy cloud on the glass; apparently he’d spotted her immediately, for a moment later, the bell above the door jangled and he was striding in towards her, his hair windblown and his pale cheeks ruddy with the cold. 

Shrugging out of his jacket and the teal-blue muffler wound snugly about his neck, he pulled off his gloves and sat down opposite her, long, tapered fingers smoothing the leather absently.

For a long moment, his grey eyes were inscrutable as he regarded her, and then they warmed. 

“Hello, Hermione. It’s nice to see you. Been a while, hasn’t it.”

“I hope you have a good reason for asking me to meet you here,” she replied brusquely. “Because quite honestly, I really don’t have the time to –”

“Keep your shirt on, Granger,” Draco sighed. “I know I’m the last person on earth you want to see and certainly the last you’d voluntarily choose to have lunch with, but yes, I do have a good reason. A very good reason, in fact, one that I think you’ll want to know about. But before I say more, let’s order, shall we? This place does an excellent smoked salmon sandwich.”

Surprised, Hermione blurted, “You’ve been here before, then?”

He sat back, raising an amused eyebrow. “What? You can’t imagine that I might actually know a thing or two about London? I mean,” he said, dropping his voice low, “the London outside of Diagon Alley, that is. As it happens, this is one of my favourite parts of the city. You never know, I might just be able to show _you_ a thing or two.”

Something told her that he could well be right about that, but there was no time to ponder such an unexpected and curious turn of events just now. There was more important business to hand.

“Look, Malfoy, I –” she began, and then fell silent as the waitress suddenly appeared, ready to take their order. “Oh, sorry, I don’t know what I want just yet. I haven’t had a chance to –”

“She’ll have the smoked salmon and cream cheese on a baguette. Make that two, actually. And a pot of Earl Grey. Unless you’d rather have something else to drink?” Draco turned to Hermione quickly, but she waved his question away.

“No, that’s fine. Perfect, actually.” Hermione smiled up at the waitress, who gave them both a wink and vanished in the direction of the kitchen. “Thanks for ordering for me,” she said drily. “I could have managed on my own, you know, if I’d had a minute to look at the menu. You didn’t need to… to… _take over_ like that.”

“Well,” Draco shrugged, “you’re in a hurry. You said so yourself. I was just trying to expedite things. I’ve been here many times and I know what’s good. I _can_ handle some things, you know. Even for you. I always could. Not that you ever let me,” he muttered almost inaudibly, his gaze moving from her face to fix on a spot on the tabletop.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment and then Hermione cleared her throat.

“Look,” she told him briskly, “you and I are ancient history, so let’s not get sidetracked. You say you had a reason for asking me to meet you here. I’d like to know what it is.”

Their pot of tea arrived just then, and Draco reached for it.

“I suspect you’ll change your mind about that once I tell you,” he replied enigmatically, pouring out cups of steaming tea and then raising one to his lips. “But okay, here goes. Possibly you are aware that some ugly rumours about Arthur Weasley are circulating round the Ministry currently.” He glanced at her quickly for confirmation, and she nodded, her expression suddenly wary.

“You might remember,” he continued, “that Malfoy Enterprises has a contact at the Prophet. Handy for inside tips on information that might affect business, that sort of thing. I know, I know… you didn’t approve years ago and you still don’t. What can I say, Granger?” Draco shrugged lightly. “It is what it is. And just now, my love, I expect you’ll be rather glad that contact has been maintained.” At Hermione’s raised eyebrow, he smiled thinly. “I’ve just found out that Rita Skeeter plans to publish a so-called ‘exposé,’ and believe me, it won’t be pretty.”

“What a surprise. And what impeccable timing,” Hermione muttered darkly, setting her cup down with a clink. “Because, of course, she knows that Ron and I are getting married in less than a week. What better way to sell papers than to smear Arthur’s name all over the front page just when his son is –”

“Tying the knot with childhood sweetheart and war heroine Hermione Granger? Or no, sorry… you _are_ still Hermione Granger-Malfoy until Friday. Much as you’d probably prefer to forget that.” His words were mild enough, but there was a momentary tightness about his mouth as he spoke.

“I’ve already forgotten it, except for the legalities,” Hermione replied airily. “And in six days, they won’t matter either, because by then, it’ll be Granger-Weasley. Or perhaps just Weasley. I haven’t quite made up my mind.”

Draco sat back in his chair, arms folded, one elegantly raised eyebrow the only betrayal of his surprise. “Do I detect a much deeper and more profound level of commitment this second time round? I must say, I’m impressed. Does the Weasel know how lucky he is?”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up and then she laughed harshly. “More than you ever did in two years of marriage! If you can even call what we had a marriage. Pathetic charade, more like.”

Those last words had enough icy sting to stop the reply that had been forming on his lips, and he simply gazed at her for a long moment. And then he smiled, the tight, tense curl of his mouth showing his teeth in a fleeting display of contempt.

“You’re well out of it, then,” he said, the calm words belying the darkness in his eyes. “We both are. Charades are for children playing games. That was never you, was it, Granger. Far too _serious_ for games, weren’t you.”

“Whereas that’s all you ever wanted!” she spat. “Wasting your time with juvenile, self-indulgent nonsense instead of truly worthwhile pursuits. You got away with it, too, working for your father. Playing at working, I should say. Ridiculous as that so-called job was, you didn’t even take that seriously. Or anything else, for that matter.”

“So you reminded me, darling. Every chance you got. Look,” he sighed, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers and wincing. “I haven’t told you quite everything. Perhaps we should be dealing with the problem at hand rather than rehashing our failed marriage blow by blow, as vastly entertaining and edifying as such an exercise would be, no doubt.”

He had a point. Hermione sat back, taking a calming sip of her tea. Just then, the waitress reappeared, bearing a tray with their food. The plates of warm, deliciously fragrant sandwiches were a welcome distraction, and for few moments, there was silence as they ate. Eventually, Hermione set down her sandwich. Her voice was measured, completely devoid of emotion.

“What haven’t you told me?” 

“There is a way to stop Skeeter publishing the article,” he began slowly, noting the sudden hope that sparked in her eyes. “But it comes at a price. She has promised to shelve the article indefinitely – _if_ you allow the Prophet an inside exclusive on the wedding.”

“Oh, I see!” Hermione’s brief laughter was contemptuous. “And why should I believe I can trust her?”

“Because if she tries to go back on her word, she’ll live to regret it. I will see to that.”

She regarded him sceptically. “ _You_ will? Why you, of all people? What’s it to do with you?” 

“Everything, actually. I told her I would persuade you to okay the article being written and to allow a couple of Prophet people to shadow you and Weasley before and during the wedding, get some exclusive interviews, that sort of thing. She was quite taken with the idea.” Draco shrugged lightly, shaking his head. “It’s quite simple, really. You don’t agree, she publishes the article. And then you’ll all be up to your eyeballs in some seriously nasty shit – you, Weasley, his father, the lot of you.”

“That’s blackmail! She can’t get away with this! I’ll… I’ll bring charges!” Hermione sputtered, her teacup coming down onto its saucer with a loud _clink_. Then she looked hard at Draco, her eyes narrowing. “This solution was your idea? Why? Why should you care? About me or Ron or Arthur, any of us?”

“I don’t,” he replied lightly. “Not in the least. No skin off my nose if Arthur Weasley’s reputation is ruined. But I couldn’t very well allow my ex-wife’s name to be dragged through the mud. Sullies my name as well by extension, something dirty like that. Got to protect myself, and I can only do that by protecting you and your lot. So…” He smiled lazily. “What will it be, Granger? Deal?”

Somehow, Hermione found herself doubting the veracity of this explanation. She knew that over the years, through his public-relations post at Malfoy Enterprises, her ex-husband had developed a reasonably cordial, even somewhat friendly, working relationship with many Ministry officials, Arthur included. Still, it was curious that he would go out of his way to create such a _quid pro quo_ , one attractive enough, apparently, to tempt Rita Skeeter away from publishing an article whose inflammatory innuendo would surely destroy Arthur’s career. 

Draco had always kept his thoughts and feelings fairly close to the vest. There would be another motive, she was certain, one he wasn’t disclosing now, something beyond merely protecting her good name in order to guard his own. Whatever it was, there could be only one answer, much as she detested the thought of reporters invading the sanctity of her wedding. She gave him a grim smile.

“Deal.”

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

21 December  
Thursday, late afternoon

 

The noise level at the Burrow had reached near-epic proportions as the small house filled with guests. The relaxed, pre-wedding gathering of family and friends had the house bursting at the seams, so that now, at four in the afternoon, it resembled nothing so much as the proverbial shoe that was home to the old woman and her multitude of children. 

If Ginny Weasley Potter hadn’t been near the front door collecting her errant toddler, who had once again attempted to escape to the snowy front garden, the knocking that had escalated to near-pounding might have gone unnoticed.

“Hello,” she said, hoisting her son up and smiling brightly to cover her surprise as she eyed the young woman who stood expectantly on the front step and then the man who stood beside her. “Ron invited you, of course. Please come in, both of you.”

Cormac McLaggen quickly stepped forward with his most ingratiating smile. “Hello, Ginny. Nice to see you again. Actually, we’re here from the Daily Prophet to do a feature on the wedding. Didn’t the bride tell you?”

Ginny stepped back to survey the new arrivals. It had been years since she’d seen Cormac, though she’d occasionally read his column in the paper. Pansy Parkinson was a different story. Her name seemed to crop up in conversation fairly often whenever Ron was around. The two of them were work colleagues and over the years, against all odds, they had eventually become friends and occasional after-work drinking partners. It was “Pansy this” and “Pansy that” so frequently that George and Bill couldn’t resist plaguing their brother with some rather pointed teasing. Ginny rolled her eyes inwardly, chuckling to herself as she anticipated the ribbing that was no doubt in store for Ron once Bill and George caught sight of Pansy.

When Cormac and Pansy stepped apart for a moment, Ginny noticed the third person waiting there, plumes of steamy breath issuing from his mouth into the frigid air. Draco Malfoy. Standing behind Cormac, who was a bit taller, he’d also been partially obscured by Pansy’s hat.

“Oh!” Ginny exclaimed, and then, recovering her wits, she added, “No, it must have slipped her mind. Here, let me take your things.” Turning slightly to allow Cormac, Pansy and Draco to pass, Ginny set Tristan on the floor, took his hand, and then offered her other arm for the new arrivals’ woollen cloaks and mufflers. “Wait here. I’ll go and fetch Hermione.”

As she passed Draco, she brushed up against his shoulder, whispering under her breath, “What on earth? What are _you_ doing here, Draco?”

“I’ll explain later,” he murmured, eyes trained on the crowd of guests congregating in the dining room and spilling over into the lounge.

Two minutes later, Hermione strode towards the three of them, a glass of champagne in hand. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, but as she approached, her lips were pursed in a distinct frown. 

“Welcome,” she muttered caustically. “I suppose I should offer you all a drink.”

“I see you haven’t forgotten your manners entirely,” Draco remarked pleasantly. “I’d quite like a drink, thanks.”

“You would,” Hermione said under her breath, and then offered a rather glacial smile to Cormac and Pansy. “Come in and join the party, won’t you? I understand you’ll be writing a feature on the wedding.”

“Photos too. For the Weekend Society and Styles page,” Pansy piped up, nodding and then directing a casual but careful glance around the room. Spotting what she’d been looking for, she relaxed visibly and smiled, turning her attention back to the conversation at hand.

“Indeed.” Cormac grinned. “This wedding is big news, you know. You’re getting the entire page.”

“Are we? How very kind of Ms. Skeeter. I’m flattered. I suppose you’ll be wanting to interview Ronald and me at some point? Or perhaps other family members or friends?” Hermione’s smile appeared to be frozen in place as she moved rather mechanically to fetch additional glasses of champagne.

“No worries. We’ll just mingle and you won’t even know we’re here,” Cormac reassured her, accepting a glass. 

“Yes,” Pansy added. “We’ll find you when we need you.” Her gaze wandered to the other side of the room once again and lingered there for a moment more. “You and Ron, that is.”

The two reporters raised their glasses in Hermione’s direction and then moved off in tandem to confer together, leaving her standing there with Draco. She turned to regard him.

“Did _you_ have to come as well?”

“Ah,” he sighed. “Just like old times. I find myself quite nostalgic.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Malfoy,” she sniffed, taking a sip of her champagne and smiling for the benefit of the room at large. 

“Haven’t you? Forgive me. It’s that thing you do, where quite conveniently, you’ve no recollection whatsoever of past behaviour that might possibly be unworthy of you.

“Rudeness doesn’t become you, darling,” he added, his voice low, “even when it’s directed at me.” Tossing back the remains of his champagne, Draco turned on his heel and strode away. 

Well, that was… unpleasant. Hermione shuddered involuntarily, watching as Draco moved towards the buffet table, greeting Molly and Arthur with an outstretched hand. _Arthur._ It was because of him that Draco was here at all, along with Pansy and Cormac, whether the two of them knew the full story or not. The fact was, _she_ knew. She’d behaved badly, and she supposed she would have to apologise – as distasteful as that prospect was, considering he’d probably rub her nose in it, the git.

*

“Looks as though just about everybody who’s anybody is here today,” Cormac noted under his breath. He and Pansy had stationed themselves at the far end of the sitting room where they could observe the goings-on from a discreet distance.

Pansy nodded. “And probably quite a few Ministry wannabes too. The amount of arse-kissing and sucking-up that’s going on here today is staggering, from the looks of things. Merlin, they’re even approaching Percy!” 

Discreetly pointing, she snickered. There, across the room, Percy Weasley was holding court, several of his junior colleagues hanging on his every word. He appeared to be loving every minute of it. On the other hand, Arthur didn’t seem to be enjoying it quite as much; he appeared to be attempting to extricate himself from the clutches of three Ministry underlings who knew on which side their bread was buttered and were determined not to be forgotten in the crush of the party. Unbeknownst to Arthur was the fact that two of them, in an attempt to cover their arses and advance their ambitions on all fronts, had been instrumental in spreading the very rumours that threatened him now.

Just then, Ron appeared from the direction of the kitchen, carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Setting it down, he glanced up, caught Pansy’s eye, and winked.

Flushing slightly, she smiled back and waved, then turned to Cormac. “I, um... Think I’ll go and talk to Ron a bit. You know, perspective of the groom and all that.”

Cormac nodded sagely. “Go on then. Knock yourself out.” He watched as Pansy moved resolutely off in Ron’s direction and grinned. 

_Good luck, love._

“Hello, Pansy.” Ron smiled at the approaching reporter, holding out a glass of sparkling white wine. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here today, but I’m chuffed you’ve come. Did Hermione ask you?”

Apparently, Hermione had not told her fiancé about the newspaper article either, which meant that possibly, his parents were none the wiser as well. Probably better that way; everybody would be far more natural and relaxed, and she and Cormac would be able to get much more intimate information from such informal, unguarded conversation. Of course, permission would have to be secured before their article could be published. Well, at least she assumed as much. With Rita Skeeter, such legal formalities were often nimbly and rather brazenly skirted.

Pansy thought quickly. “Uh... yeah, in fact, she did. Told me I’d really disappointed you by saying no when you asked. So here I am!” She smiled brightly and raised her glass, taking a sip. “How are you, anyway?”

“Bit crazed, actually.” Ron let out a short bark of laughter and shook his head ruefully. “This getting-married business really gets on your wick after a while, you know?”

“I don’t know, actually,” Pansy admitted. “I’d like to someday, though.” _Oh my gosh, shut up, Parkinson! Why the hell did you just say that?_

“I see you’ve brought McLaggen.” Ron leaned in, peering at Pansy more closely. “Something going on between you two?”

“Cormac and me? No! He’s just my... my plus-one. You know.” Pansy giggled lightly. “Plus-one.”

“Ah. Right. Well, the more the merrier, I reckon. You, uh... you haven’t been round much after work lately...”

No, she hadn’t, that was true. These days, it had become too uncomfortable, painful even, to be around Ron in the off hours, what with all the wedding talk. Far easier to absent herself altogether than to be subjected to yet another blow-by-blow of all the wedding arrangements and honeymoon plans, generally described in increasingly excruciating detail the more ale Ron consumed.

He drained his glass and poured himself another drink. “Missed you, y’know.”

“Did you?” Pansy asked quietly. 

But Ron was already turning to hail a guest who’d just arrived. Her question died away into silence.


	5. Chapter 5

Thursday evening  
9 pm

 

The remains of an enormous buffet dinner sat rather forlornly on the sideboard and table in the dining room. Sated guests were now scattered all over the house in varying attitudes of repose, some collapsed into deep armchairs and others quietly snoring on the sofas and even in some of the bedrooms upstairs. Most of them were rather the worse for the amount of drink they’d had, the wine and ale and champagne on hand both plentiful and quite good. Quiet pockets of conversation hummed from small knots of partygoers mixed with those who had already begun sleeping off their excesses. The enticing perfume of freshly brewed coffee now scented the house; Molly hoped it would revive those already close to comatose and put the proper finishing touch on the meal, along with several cakes and a spectacular trifle she’d lovingly prepared.

“Come on, love,” she murmured, resting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder in passing and pointing to the platters of sweets waiting just beyond in the kitchen. “Help me get this lot to the table.”

“Okay, Mum,” Ginny replied agreeably, getting to her feet. “Harry, please look after Triss, will you?”

Harry nodded and pulled his son into his lap, where he squirmed and wriggled in protest. His father’s lap was the last place Tristan Potter wanted to be, not when there were so many fascinating spots in his grandparents’ funny old house to explore.

Molly leaned over the large, farmhouse-style table in the kitchen and reached for the china plate that held a fluffy cream cake. Straightening, she handed the plate to Ginny and then paused, her gaze suddenly far away.

“I don’t know…” she began softly. “Do you suppose...”

Ginny’s brows drew together quizzically. “What is it, Mum? What are you trying to say?”

“Well, it’s just that... I’ve been watching your brother...”

Ginny giggled. “Oh yes? Which one?”

“Ronald, and well you know it! Don’t be cheeky!” Molly pursed her lips for a moment, shaking her head. “I’ve been thinking… Does he seem entirely… _happy_ to you? Lately he’s been… I don’t know… distracted. Not altogether there, if that makes any sense.”

Ginny thought for a bit, frowning. “Now you mention it, Mum… actually, I have noticed something of the sort. Probably just nerves, yeah? Pre-wedding jitters? Although…” 

“Although what?”

“There’s something else as well,” Ginny mused. “I didn’t like to say anything before, but have you noticed how he’s been acting round Pansy Parkinson today? You know how often he mentions her. And today –”

“He seems to light up around her, doesn’t he.” Molly’s voice was flat. “‘Course,” she hastened to add, “I’m not surprised he enjoys himself with her. After all, they’re good friends, aren’t they. Work mates. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Still…” Ginny sighed. “I don’t know, Mum…”

“Oh well, perhaps we’re reading far too much into this,” Molly decided, her tone suddenly brisk. “Let’s get the coffee and these sweets out there. It’s well past time for pudding!”

*

Out in the back garden, newly manicured for the occasion, the frosty air drew a cloud of steamy breath from Hermione as she sighed. She’d been wandering about on her own for the better part of ten minutes, after a sudden, rather desperate need to escape the many well-wishers and family members crowding around her and Ron, together and individually. She was not ordinarily claustrophobic, but the press of people was becoming unbearable, and so she had fled, offering the hurried excuse of a sudden headache and the need to clear her head with some fresh air.

In truth, she had drunk rather a lot over the course of the last several hours. Not enough to completely muddle her thoughts, but enough to loosen her tongue a bit. Feeling a bout of painful and possibly dangerous honesty coming on along with the claustrophobia, she had excused herself after noting that Cormac McLaggen was heading in her direction. Yes, she’d agreed to suffer his and Pansy’s presence, but she didn’t have to like it, and she certainly didn’t have to cooperate beyond the barest minimum. They’d have to work for whatever information they wormed out of her, and she’d make sure the same was true for Ron and anyone else they were likely to talk to.

She sat down on a stone bench alongside the flowerbeds that bloomed so riotously in the summer. Now, they were a rigid mass of flattened weeds, crusted over by a fine glaze of ice and frost. The stone bench was bitterly cold against the backs of her thighs, covered only by the thin material of her frock, and she shivered involuntarily.

“Not awfully smart, was it, coming out without your cloak,” a voice said softly behind her.

Draco stood there, a tall, shadowy figure, his pale hair backlit by the lights streaming from the house and a small, enigmatic half-smile playing about his lips. Even in the dim light of the garden, there was a discernible elegance and grace about him. Slipping off his own cloak, he draped it about her shoulders and then sat down beside her.

“But you’ll be cold now,” Hermione protested. 

He raised a forbearing hand and she fell silent.

“I’m fine. No worries. Are _you_ all right, Granger? You disappeared in rather a hurry earlier.”

He’d taken note of her departure, apparently the only one who had. 

She sighed heavily. “Oh yes, I’m just dandy, thanks. It’s all coming together beautifully, isn’t it, this… this _circus_.” She paused, finally muttering the words that seemed to stick to the roof of her mouth. “Sorry about earlier, by the way.”

Draco nodded absently, almost seeming not to register the apology. He was far more interested now in something else. “Is that how it’s feeling to you?” His question probed gently but insistently.

“I suppose. But… but that’s normal, isn’t it, feeling a bit overwhelmed the night before?”

“You didn’t feel that way the night before we got married.”

Hermione smiled crookedly. “That’s because we eloped, you prat. There was no plonking great extravaganza hanging over our heads _and_ no reporters hanging about and hoping to catch us making fools of ourselves. It was just us. And besides, we were too young and stupid to know any better.”

Draco turned his head to gaze out at the barren garden before him, then looked at her once again. His smile seemed tired and a bit thin now.

“That we were. No disagreement from me there. Impulsive too, or I reckon I was, at least. Maybe I rushed you into something you weren’t ready for. That neither of us was really ready for.”

They fell silent then, remaining that way for several minutes, their exhaled breaths mingling in thick, vaporous plumes in the chill air. 

“There was one thing you didn’t mention,” he remarked, breaking the silence, his voice quite low now. “We were also in love. Or at least… I was.” Turning his head, he levelled a searching look at her. “I loved you terribly, Hermione. Did you ever really love me?”

The question was seemingly innocuous, the expression of a genuine desire to understand, and yet there was a distinct volatility to the words, a sting just below the surface, that made them fairly crackle in the silence. 

“Yes! Of course I did! How could you possibly ask such a question?” Hermione found herself bristling now. “I’ll thank you to stop interrogating me. What’s past is past. No point in dredging up our mistakes now.”

“Because our marriage was definitely a mistake in your view, is that right?” The words were quiet, but their steely edge was unmistakeable.

“You _cheated_ on me, Draco! Does that not count as a mistake? On my part, at least?” Her answer was ragged and shrill.

“I did cheat. Yes.” He sighed deeply. “And that was wrong. And sordid. Incredibly stupid as well. I know that now. But did you ever ask yourself why? Men cheat for lots of reasons, Hermione. Mostly, it comes down to looking for what they’re not getting at home. In my case, it wasn’t the sex I was looking for, particularly, though towards the end, there wasn’t much of that with you either. Mostly, it was something far more fundamental.”

“Oh, really? And what was that?” she gritted.

“A bit of unconditional… approval, I suppose you could say. Yeah, approval. Acceptance. Me, just the way I was. Those women… they meant nothing to me. But _they_ were capable of giving me a little bit of what I needed, at least, where you couldn’t. Did you ever really love me at all, Hermione?” he repeated, angrily now. “Do you even know what it _means?_ ”

The question was a direct challenge.

“Stop it, Draco! How dare you!” She choked out the words, swallowing down tears that had sprung into her throat and threatened to render coherent speech impossible. “The truth is, you let me down! In so many ways, not just the cheating! You had no real ambition of your own! You took the easy way out and chose to work for your father, instead of making something for yourself that was truly _yours_. How could I possibly respect a decision like that?” 

Trembling now and utterly furious, tears leaking unbidden from her eyes, she managed a feeble sneer. “Not only was that so-called ‘job’ a joke to begin with, but you took advantage of being the boss’s son and messed about instead of doing even a modicum of real work! So often, you weren’t even there, but at a Quidditch match or off drinking with your friends at some pub! Or fucking some slag! I knew! Gods, how could I respect you, when you behaved like… like…” The words died in her throat and she shuddered, miserably clutching at his cloak and rocking.

“An arse! I was immature! Fuck yeah. I’m the first to admit it! But Merlin, Hermione, we were nineteen years old. We _were_ kids, really! Or I was, anyway. I don’t know if you ever were. All I know is, I didn’t have a bloody clue what I wanted to do with my life after the war! I had hoped maybe we could work that out together. I’d have liked that. But no, you were ready to judge me from the off.” 

He gave a brief, mirthless laugh. “You couldn’t cut me even a little slack, could you, give me time to figure things out for myself even whilst working for my father. I’d already failed in your book just by making that one decision. The irony was, I had thought doing that, no worries, I’d be successful and make you proud. But after that, nothing I did was good enough, was it. So yeah, eventually I gave up! I thought, what the fuck. I could have stood on my head and it wouldn’t have been enough. Do you think I really wanted those women? Fuck’s sake, I wanted _you_. But at least they were real women, Hermione, warm and giving – not a cold, judgemental imitation. It only happened twice. You know that. And neither time amounted to anything, contrary to what you chose to believe. But for those few hours and a few Galleons, I felt like a man, not a pathetic screw-up.”

The speech and the palpable grief resurrected by his memories had emptied Draco, leaving him with no more words. He stood at last, raw pain and bitterness in his eyes. 

“I’m going in. Keep the cloak,” he muttered, as she made to slide it off her shoulders. “No point in getting sick the day before your wedding.”


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione was still hunched miserably on the bench, Draco’s cloak wrapped around her, when another figure approached. The snap of a twig underfoot sounded like a small shot in the quiet of the garden, and Hermione looked up, startled.

It was Cormac, and he was carrying a bottle and a pair of slender, fluted glasses. 

“May I?” At her nod, he sat down beside her and grinned. “You’re not an easy person to track down, Ms. Granger!”

Hermione gave a half-hearted little laugh as she accepted the glass of champagne he offered her. “But somehow you managed, I see.”

He chuckled in response. “Guilty as charged. So... are you out here avoiding the festivities in general, or me in particular?”

“Both, to be honest.” Hermione burrowed into the cloak, wrapping herself in it more snugly. It smelled of Draco, a warm, woodsy, faintly spicy scent that nudged her memory, and she found herself burying her nose in the soft, dark wool and inhaling deeply.

“Big day tomorrow, eh? I suppose it’s what was meant to be all along, you and Weasley.” Cormac paused, regarding her speculatively. “Forgive my bluntness, but I’d have thought you’d look a bit happier and more excited than you do. Cheers, by the way!”

Their glasses touched with a tiny, bell-like clink and both took a generous sip of the effervescent liquid. Bubbles tickled Hermione’s nose, and suddenly – perhaps it was Draco’s scent on the cloak reminding her – she remembered an impromptu picnic he’d conjured by their sitting-room fireplace, to celebrate their first month of marriage. It had been a chilly, rain-soaked July evening, and the fire had been welcome. They’d toasted each other and made slow, sensuous love on a soft blanket by the flickering light of the fire. It had been so easy then, so lovely... She’d truly believed they would always have moments like that one to share, stretching on through all the years of their lives. 

_All the years of their lives._ Those years had amounted to exactly two, plus three months. By her twenty-second birthday, they were separated and divorced not long after, and it seemed everybody was quite content to carry on and pretend that their marriage had never happened. 

Well, nearly everybody. Her father had seemed oddly discomfited by all of it at the time, and thereafter, he would give her the strangest lingering glances, as if somehow he could read into her soul just by looking hard enough. As if somehow he expected that in doing so, he would discern something different, something truer, than what she professed out loud whenever the subject of her failed marriage came up. Several times, he had even broached the subject – in a gingerly manner, of course, as Hermione tended to be fairly prickly about it – but she’d put a stop to such conversations at last, assuring him that the divorce had indeed been the right decision and that she was ever so much happier and better off without Draco Malfoy in her life. He remained dubious even now, she knew, but kept it to himself.

Her former mother-in-law was another one. Narcissa Malfoy had not initially cheered the marriage; in fact, their elopement had shocked and dismayed her, and at the time, Hermione had wondered if she would ever have a comfortable relationship with Draco’s rather formidable mother, never mind his father. However, it hadn’t been long before the older woman had begun reaching out in small ways – an invitation to tea, walks and conversation in the garden at the Manor, the loan of a book after Hermione had spotted it in the Manor’s vast library, her eyes lighting up – and a fragile, new friendship had been forged. The divorce had left Narcissa bewildered and hurting for her son, angry at his wife and yet hurting for her too. 

And now, all these years later, five to be exact, she was on the verge of a life change that felt reassuringly... safe. Yes, that was it. A known quantity, and a comfortably familiar one. Nothing wrong with that, was there? It was probably precisely that sort of predictable, relaxed familiarity that solid, long-lasting marriages were made from, not the mercurial, capricious passions that were the stuff of love matches. Not that she didn’t love Ron. She did. Of course she did. It was just different with him. More... settled. Settled and safe.

“Oh, well,” she sighed, coming back from her momentary reverie and aware, suddenly, that Cormac had asked her a question and she still hadn’t answered it. He was looking at her expectantly. “Of course I’m happy. Deliriously happy. I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s been a lot... you know... so much to do, so many details.” She took a swallow of her champagne and giggled suddenly. “Now _this_ is nice, I must say. I needed this. Thank you for bringing it!”

“My pleasure,” he replied, raising his own glass and knocking back a large swallow.

At that, Hermione laughed again, poking Cormac. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to gulp champagne? That’s practically sacrilege! You must take small sips, savour its perfume, let it arouse your palate slowly and delicately. Like this!” Lifting her glass to her lips, she sipped carefully, closing her eyes and then smiling with pleasure.

“I should have thought,” she went on in mock reproach, “you’d have learnt a thing or two about the finer things by this time. I mean, we’re nearly thirty, aren’t we, not children anymore. It’s important to know these things!”

“We’re nowhere near thirty. Twenty-seven and proud of it. And I’ll have you know I am very well versed in the finer things. One of which, if I might be so bold as to confess it, is you. D’you know," he told her, leaning closer, his words beginning to slur a bit, "I’ve always secretly hoped for a chance to make up for that night years ago. Slughorn’s holiday party. You remember.”

She did indeed. A part of her recoiled at the memory, but the prospect of a newly refreshed glass of champagne quickly rendered the more distasteful bits somewhat vague about the edges. “Of course I do. You were –”

“A bit of a wanker. I know. And I’m sorry. But that was ten years ago, Hermione. I’ve grown up since then. And so have you, I must say,” he added, his glance travelling the length of her slowly and appreciatively.

“I have, haven’t I,” she echoed faintly, her pulse beginning to pound in her throat. She held out her glass to him. “Could I have a bit more of that lovely champagne, please?”

“Gods, Hermione...” Cormac’s voice was soft and silken, like rustling leaves. He edged a bit closer. “Look at you. You’re so beautiful. I thought ten years ago that you were the prettiest girl in school, but you’re even lovelier now than when you were seventeen.”

“Am I?” Hermione felt a hot flush creep up her neck and splash high colour into her cheeks, yet she couldn’t seem to look away. “Not cold, then, am I?”

“Never!” Cormac murmured, leaning in to nuzzle her neck, one hand closing over hers and drawing it into his lap. “Why ever would you think that?”

“Not... not just an imitation of a woman?” she whispered, her throat closing with unwanted tears. 

Cormac moved closer still, sliding an arm about Hermione’s waist and bending his head to hers. He could smell the perfume of her hair, and he breathed it in, revelling in it, before slipping his other hand beneath its luxuriant mass, pressing his palm against the nape of her neck. “Hardly!” he breathed. “You’re perfect!”

Her heart was banging in her chest, her breaths coming quickly and shallowly, growing anticipation sending her pulse racing, all feelings she hadn’t had in so very long... and yet, something was wrong. This man, handsome and genteel and clearly desirous of her, was about to kiss her, but something was very wrong. And it wasn’t, Hermione realised with a terrible shock, because she felt the slightest bit guilty for wanting him to do it. It was the eve of her wedding and she ought to have felt guilty about that, but she didn’t, and that was sufficiently troubling in itself. No, there was something else, something much worse.

The shock of this initial realisation made her pull violently away just as Cormac’s lips were brushing hers. Breathing hard and trying not to cry, she clutched at the cloak, bringing it up to her face the way a child would a cherished comfort object. The scent, warm and woodsy with just a hint of spice, flooded her nostrils and now she felt the tears filling her eyes and threatening to fall in earnest.

Because that was when the second, far more overwhelming realisation hit, and what was truly wrong became all too clear.

Jumping to her feet in a near panic, Hermione thrust the glass into Cormac’s hands and turned toward the house only to find Ron standing a few feet from the door and staring at her, his mouth a thin, angry line.

“Bloody hell...!” he began, his hands clenching into fists.

“It was nothing, Ron! Nothing happened, I swear...” Hermione quavered, feeling suddenly dizzy. She swayed, and Cormac automatically stepped forward to catch her. Finding his arms about her waist, she pushed him off and took a wobbly step forward. “How... how long were you standing there?”

“Long enough! Nothing, eh? It didn’t look like nothing to me!” he growled. “I know what I saw!”

“Don’t be an idiot, Weasel.” The voice, dryly amused, came from behind Ron. Draco lounged gracefully against the doorframe, arms folded. He seemed to be trying very hard to keep from smiling. “Clearly, she was pushing him away.”

“The git kissed her! And she let him! Reckon you’ll tell me I just imagined all that, yeah, Malfoy?” Ron spluttered indignantly.

“No. He kissed her all right. And that’s the point, you plonker. _He_ kissed _her_ , not the other way round.” Draco detached himself from the doorframe and ambled over towards the others. “Cut her a little bit of slack, eh, Weasley? I mean... she’s only human.”

Catching Hermione’s eye, Draco smiled, and it was _that_ smile, the one he’d always reserved for her, the one that lit his eyes with its warmth. Suddenly, something inside her threatened to shatter into a million pieces in front of everyone. She had to get away.

“I... need to lie down for a while! I’m feeling a bit sick. Please... excuse me... sorry!” she faltered, hitching up the cloak with both hands and rushing pell-mell into the house, the startled guests in her wake staring at each other, nonplussed.


	7. Chapter 7

The considerable distance between Ginny’s old room and the houseful of guests downstairs was insufficient to dispel the sense Hermione now had that, steadily and inexorably, everything was closing in on her. It had come on her so quickly, so stealthily, that she had been caught unawares and completely unprepared for the epiphany that had hit her squarely between the eyes only twenty minutes earlier: that what she was about to do might just be the biggest mistake of her life.

Now, she lay face down on Ginny’s childhood bed, her face buried in the quilt, oblivious to the fact that great splotches of mascara-coloured tears were staining the pale blue fabric. A soft knock on the door went unnoticed. A second knock sounded a moment later, and then the door opened very slowly.

“Hermione? Mind if I come in?” Philip Granger poked his head around the doorframe.

“Go away, Daddy,” came the muffled reply.

“No, I think not. Not this time.” And with that, Hermione’s father came inside, shut the door securely, and sat down at the foot of the bed. “Hermione, darling, tell me, please: what’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” 

Silence. And then, seconds later, an agonised “ _Everything!_ ”

 _Now we’re getting somewhere_. Philip smiled wryly and reached out to smooth a lock of hair from his daughter’s tear-stained cheek. “Tell me.”

For a moment more, Hermione’s prone form lay still, only the slight shaking of her shoulders a telltale sign of her distress. Then she raised herself up, twisting around to look directly at her father.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m a mess! A complete and utterly pathetic mess. I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing anymore!”

Philip smiled gently. “It would appear, my darling daughter, that you’re getting married tomorrow.”

“And having a paralysing panic attack the night before!” Hermione flopped back onto the pillows, throwing one arm over her eyes.

“Paralysing. Interesting choice of word. So – are we talking about something more than just your usual, garden-variety, pre-wedding nerves, then?”

Silence once again.

“Sweetheart?” The old, familiar endearment prodded gently, insistently.

“I don’t know!” she wailed at last, turning to bury her face in the pillows once again.

“What’s got you so scared all of a sudden? Or – _is_ it all of a sudden?” Philip reached out and laid a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

“Yes! I mean, I thought it was.” Her words came out in a shuddering near-whisper. “Now I’m not so sure! I don’t know what I think anymore! I’m so confused!”

Philip expelled a deep sigh. “What’s started all this, Hermione? Surely you must have some idea.”

“I… I don’t know, really… I mean, I was fine until today, wasn’t I?” Hermione sat up and stared at her father. “ _Wasn’t_ I?” she repeated.

Philip frowned. “I don’t know, Hermione. Were you? Really?”

There was a long, terrible pause.

“No. Not really,” Hermione gulped, her eyes full of anguished tears. “It’s… it’s...”

“It’s Draco,” her father said quietly, sitting back and folding his arms. “Isn’t that right? I couldn’t help noticing the way he’s been looking at you ever since he arrived, and for that matter, those furtive, little glances of yours in his direction when you thought nobody was watching. For somebody who knows you, it was rather hard to miss!”

“Oh no!” she cried, covering her eyes with one hand and falling back on the pillows. “Do you think anybody else noticed as well?”

Philip’s mouth twitched but he managed to maintain a serious demeanor. ““I wouldn’t be surprised. Neither of you was exactly discreet. By the way, who were those others he came with? Friends of yours from school?”

“Yes,” she replied dully. “In a manner of speaking. They’re here to write an article about the wedding for The Daily Prophet.”

This was a surprise. “I thought you didn’t want publicity of any sort beyond a simple announcement in the paper.”

“I didn’t. But the paper’s publisher has got some dirt on Arthur, and she was prepared to publish it, except… except that Draco stepped in and stopped her.”

“How?”

“He’d got a tip about her intentions, so he offered to arrange for an inside exclusive on the wedding in exchange for her silence. And I believe he’s threatened her somehow, too, in case she still tries to publish that vile stuff at some point in the future.”

“Good Lord! Does he actually have the wherewithal to carry out such a threat?”

Hermione nodded. “Oh yes. He’s got the Malfoy name and all the power behind it to back him up.”

“But…” Philip stroked his chin thoughtfully. “There’s something I don’t quite understand. Why would he intervene in this way? What’s it to him, all this business? I seem to recall you telling me some time ago that there is a longstanding history of animosity between the Weasleys and the Malfoys. Is that no longer the case?”

“Well, Ron and Draco get along decently well now, I suppose. Arthur and Lucius Malfoy aren’t too fond of each other, though, and I doubt they ever will be. I was surprised, too, when Draco told me about all this. He _said_ he was just protecting his own good name by protecting me and Arthur.” Hermione shook her head pensively, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

“Frankly, that sounds just a bit fishy, if you ask me,” Philip remarked pointedly. “I suspect there’s another reason altogether. And I think you know exactly what it is.” He looked directly at his daughter, a tiny smile beginning to lift the corners of his mouth. “Don’t you?”

Hermione turned her head away, a slow blush beginning to colour her cheeks. It was answer enough for her father – and the perfect opening for a question he’d wanted to put to her, frankly and with no holds barred, for the past five years. 

“Hermione,” he said eventually, his tone measured, “why did you and Draco split up?”

The question itself really wasn’t a surprise, though the directness of it was. 

She sighed deeply. “Come on, Dad. Seriously? Do we really have to go over all that tired, old ground again?”

“Yes. We do. Because we’ve never had a proper conversation about this, not once in all the years since you and Draco ended things. You’ve become very accomplished at avoidance, young lady. I think it’s time to deal with it once and for all.”

Hermione could see that her father had no intention of giving an inch this time. 

“He cheated on me. More than once. You know that,” she replied mechanically.

“Yes, I remember. But I remember something else as well, Hermione. That business didn’t happen until well into the marriage.”

“No, it didn't. That’s true. We... we were so happy at first! But over time... I don’t know...” Her voice trailed off into silence.

“Did it happen often?”

She shook her head. 

“And... was there any emotional attachment involved? Did he ever have an actual affair?” 

Once again, she shook her head, tears beginning to puddle again and spill onto her cheeks. One rolled down her nose and hung there until she brushed at it roughly. “No. They were one-offs, and he regretted them. I know that now. I think I knew it then too, but I was just so angry and hurt...”

Philip nodded, reaching out to give her hand a quick squeeze. “Look, I’m not saying that extra-marital sex is acceptable by any means, and that you had no reason to be hurt by it. Not at all. What he did was very wrong. But sweetheart, there had to be a cause, something that would've led him to seek out the company of others. Have you any idea what it was?”

Hermione nodded miserably. “I do now. He told me tonight. Not that he hadn’t said all of it before, to be fair. He did try. I just never really _listened_. Oh Dad,” she wailed suddenly, burying her face in her hands. “He... he said...” She sniffled loudly, gratefully accepting the handkerchief her father handed her. “He said that I was... that I was cold and... and that he never felt truly accepted for himself, only judged. And disapproved of. And that’s why eventually, he started spending so much time away from home with his friends, at the pub and wherever.”

“And why he ended up having those... encounters. He felt he couldn’t do anything right, is that it? How many were there, do you know?”

Hermione held up two fingers. 

“I see.” 

“Yes, well... according to him, I was never really a true partner in the marriage, just a... a bitch and a... and a _shrew_ , always finding fault!”

“Did he say that, specifically?”

“No, never in those words. But I know that’s how he felt.”

“And... is there any foundation at all to his feelings?”

There was a long pause during which Hermione stared unhappily down at her hands, unwilling to answer, her silence providing a particularly eloquent reply.

“I see,” he murmured once again. “Is there anything else, whilst we’re about it? Any other reason for the break-up?”

“He might have tried a bit harder to be his own man. I was right to expect that much at least, wasn’t I?” Her tone had a sullen edge now, though its defiance was half-hearted.

“Yes, of course, over time. But perhaps you might have given him more of a chance to do just that before writing him off. Not everybody is as... as _focused_ as you are, darling, for lack of a better word. Not everyone is quite as driven. We can’t always hold others to our own standards. Sometimes, we must give them a bit of leeway instead, some understanding. Room to make mistakes. We can’t expect perfection all the time. Because it doesn’t exist, hard as we all try to achieve it. We’re only human.”

Hermione looked sharply at her dad then, offering him a rueful and rather watery smile. “Draco said that tonight, too. About me, to Ron. Something happened tonight, Dad. I... I did something stupid, something I regret, and Ron nearly went ballistic. But Draco... he understood, somehow. ‘She’s only human,’ he said. I think... Dad, I think he’s forgiven me.”

“He’s certainly still in love with you, that much is obvious.” Philip sat back once again, regarding his daughter expectantly while wondering what on earth could have happened to trigger this meltdown. Somehow he managed to bite his tongue, asking only, “And you? How do _you_ feel? Have you forgiven _him_? Or are you really ready to walk away for good?”

Hermione turned away, the handkerchief a sodden mass between her fingers as she continued to twist it. “I already have done,” she whispered. “We’re divorced, remember?”

Her father shook his head, laughing softly. “Nothing is ever written in stone, sweetheart.” His demeanour changed, then, growing serious. “The two of you were nineteen years old when you got married. Clearly, neither of you was ready. You both had some growing up to do. I’m not surprised, really, that your marriage failed.”

Hermione’s head snapped up and she stared at her father, his bluntness taking her by surprise.

“However, what’s done is done. The question now becomes, where do we go from here? Because unless something happens to change things, there will be a wedding tomorrow afternoon. You need to give this matter some very serious thought tonight. Just know this: whatever you decide, your mum and I will be behind you all the way.”

He opened his arms, and Hermione dove into them, clinging to her father as she had done when she was a very little girl and needed the sort of comforting only he could provide. There was the familiar sweet-maple fragrance of his pipe tobacco, the tang of his aftershave, and the freshly laundered scent of his shirt. And there were his strong arms, always there for her.

But this time, she knew, she couldn’t depend on her father for the answer needed to get her out of this gods-awful mess she was in. This time, she had to look to herself.

*

Late Thursday night  
The Toad and Garter

 

Three tall pint glasses stood, half full, on the pitted, old wooden table in a darkened corner of the pub. Smoke-filled and noisy, the pub was doing a brisk business even this late in the evening, despite the strict licensing laws that governed its Muggle counterparts. It was easy to flout such laws, of course, as the pub was and always had been completely hidden to anyone who didn’t have the magical pedigree to find it.

Draco Malfoy sat well back in the old-fashioned wooden settle, his face partially obscured by shadows. Opposite him were Pansy Parkinson and Cormac McLaggen. They’d been there for the better part of an hour and had not wasted a moment of it. There was good drink to be had in this establishment. It would be a shame and a crime, really, not to partake of it. And besides, there was a wedding not even twenty-four hours away. Fourteen, to be precise. Two out of the three people at this table wanted nothing more than to blot out that fact, at least for a little while anyway. And the third was feeling vaguely melancholy. All in all, another good reason to get pissed for all three.

Pansy’s sudden giggle broke what had seemed a rather long silence punctuated only by the sounds of swallowing, occasional deep sighs, and glasses meeting wood. 

“This is pathetic. Honestly. I mean, look at us. We were supposed to be there in a professional capacity, Cormac, and what did we come away with in the end? Fuck-all.”

“Well,” her colleague replied pointedly, “if you hadn’t been mooning about all night over the groom, maybe you’d have got something worth printing.”

“Oh yes, the way you did, I suppose? I saw you follow Hermione outside with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. What was that all about, eh? Trying to make up for lost time?”

“What do you know about it?” Cormac challenged her, suddenly on the defensive. Where did Parkinson come off, making such insinuations?

“Oh, come on,” Pansy laughed, taking another generous swallow of her ale. “Back in sixth year, everybody knew you had it bad for Granger. But she wasn’t interested, was she. Uh-uh. Surprise, surprise, secretly she had it bad for somebody else, apparently.” And with that, she turned her gaze on Draco, smiling sweetly at him. “What happened, Draco? Couldn’t satisfy her? Or was it the other way round?”

“You’re drunk, Pans,” he replied woodenly. “And what happened between Granger and me is none of your business.”

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I was just having you on. Seriously, though… how are you feeling about tomorrow? Are you _really_ okay with her marrying Ron?”

“My ex-wife is free to marry whomever she likes,” Draco answered stiffly. “It’s none of my affair anymore. I’m just here to see that the two of you get your article.”

Cormac took a long pull on his drink, leaning back against the settle. “Yeah, you know,” he mused, “quite honestly, I’ve been wondering about that. Why? I mean, why have you taken it upon yourself to set all this up? Has Skeeter got something on you, is that it?” He laughed darkly. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

There was a lengthy pause, during which Draco seemed to be wrestling with a question. Eventually, he looked up at his table partners, his mouth pinched and tense. “Not on me. On Arthur Weasley.”

Pansy and Cormac sat back, open-mouthed and silent. Smiling grimly, Draco continued.

“There’s an ugly rumour circulating at the Ministry involving Arthur. Supposedly, he’s been accepting bribes from suspected Dark wizards to keep their activities and possessions secret.”

Now the expressions on both Cormac’s and Pansy’s faces turned purely incredulous.

“Arthur Weasley, of all people? You’re joking!” Cormac couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter. “The idea is patently absurd. Anybody who knows anything about him could tell you that.”

Draco sighed wearily. “Yes, well... clearly, somebody in the Ministry is trying to mount a smear campaign for reasons of his or her own. I could speculate on what those reasons might be, but let’s leave that for the moment. In any case, an old contact at the Prophet got in touch recently and tipped me off to the fact that your boss had one of her filthy ‘exposés’ planned.” 

Pansy leaned forward on the table, her chin resting in her palm, her reporter’s instincts piqued. “So…” she began slowly, piecing it all together, “I’m guessing you brokered a deal with her. The inside scoop on the wedding of the year in exchange for –”

“Skeeter’s silence and the article shelved,” Cormac finished. “Right?”

Toying with his glass, Draco nodded. “So you lot had better come up with something you can give her, or the shit will hit the fan. And I don’t want to see Hermione hurt.”

A smile flickered briefly across Pansy’s face. “You still love her, don’t you?” she asked softly.

“Immaterial,” Draco muttered, his voice brusque. “Skeeter has to be stopped, period. I don’t suppose either of you knows of anything we could use against her?” He had tossed off the question with no real expectation of an affirmative reply from either Pansy or Cormac, and now he stared fixedly down at the glass of ale before him, his mouth a tense line.

“You know,” Cormac mused, thoughtfully tapping a finger against his lower lip. “I believe I just might do, at that.”

Draco’s head snapped up and he regarded the other man with sudden, keen interest. “What’ve you got?”

“Well…” Cormac began conspiratorially, and the three of them put their heads together.


	8. Chapter 8

22 December  
Friday afternoon, 3 PM  
Winter Solstice

 

If only her head didn’t feel as if it were in a vise. A vise that was also a ticking time bomb, each tick a painful throbbing between her eyes. 

Back at the Burrow, the hangover potion phial stood empty on the nightstand in Ginny’s old room. Hermione had dosed herself several hours earlier, but to no avail. Now, she sat on a small loveseat in the spacious and beautifully appointed ladies’ in the Rose and Chalice, her cream-coloured wedding dress still zipped into the garment bag hanging from a brass hook on the wall. Sixty short minutes stood between her and her future as Mrs. Ronald Weasley.

A covey of women surrounded her now, each one trying her best to get through to Hermione. Her mother, Molly, Ginny, and Luna Lovegood Longbottom had all begged her to tell them what was so terribly wrong that large tears were now rolling down her cheeks, ruining the beautiful make-up job that Ginny had done so artfully not twenty minutes before. But until now, Hermione had remained frustratingly unresponsive.

“Mum, Molly…” she quavered at last, gratefully accepting the tissue Luna handed her and dabbing at her eyes. “I know you’re trying to help and I appreciate that, really I do. But… well… I need to talk to my friends, if that’s all right. I’m sorry!” Fresh tears welled up as she looked first at her mother and then at Molly. They would never forgive her, either of them. 

Helene Granger regarded her daughter with a mixture of deep concern, surprise, and confusion, her expression a mirror of the one on Molly Weasley’s face as well. Philip had taken her aside last night at the party, warning her that something of the sort might happen. But this was a case of pre-wedding jitters, surely. Wasn’t it? 

A look passed between her and Molly, who shook her head worriedly. She had the disturbing sense, as Helene did, that there was very likely a good deal more to this than a simple case of nerves. A single, sharply meaningful look from Ginny signalled the gravity of the situation, however, and sensibly, she held her tongue. 

Helene laid a light hand on her daughter’s shoulder, patting it gently. “No, no, don’t apologise, darling. We’ll be just outside if you need us.” With that, Helene bent, dropping a light kiss on Hermione’s cheek, and then the two women left, casting worried glances over their shoulders.

As soon as the girls were alone, Ginny and Luna seated themselves next to Hermione, pulling their chairs in close.

“Hermione, what’s wrong? You can tell us now,” Luna murmured soothingly, stroking Hermione’s hair back from her tear-stained face. 

“Yes, please, what’s happened, Hermione? You seemed fine last night.” Ginny frowned. What on earth could have happened to throw this stable, self-assured young woman into such an emotional shambles? 

“Everybody’s going to hate me. No!” she insisted, shaking her head, new tears trickling down her cheeks. “You will, I _know_ you will! Merlin, _I_ hate me right now!”

“You’re just nervous, Herms. It’s only natural. I was terribly nervous before Harry and I got married. I thought I was going to sick up all over my frock! Don’t you remember?” Ginny laughed a little at the memory and then the laughter died in her throat as she caught sight of Hermione’s pained expression. 

“Tell us. We won’t hate you. I promise,” Luna told her quietly. 

“Something happened last night. I… I was in the garden, talking to Cormac. And he… he… well, I might as well just say it. He kissed me. I _know!_ ” Hermione wailed, seeing the startled expressions on her friends’ faces. “But… see, the thing is, we were a bit drunk, and… and he was flirting with me, just innocent flirting, really, and I… I can’t lie. I was enjoying it. I don’t know... I was feeling something I hadn’t felt with Ron for a long time. Maybe not ever, if I’m going to be honest.”

“Excitement. A spark,” Luna said, almost to herself. “Is that it?”

Hermione nodded miserably. “Yes. And I knew, I _knew_ he was going to kiss me. And I wanted him to! I hadn’t felt that lovely, fluttery feeling in so long, I’d nearly forgotten what it was like. Not since…”

They all knew the unspoken end to that sentence. 

“Not since…?” Ginny gently prompted her. “It’s okay, Herms. I think we know. Not since Draco.”

“Yes! And that’s the thing! That was the worst part of it! Because as Cormac was kissing me, I realised that I didn’t want it to be him at all! I wanted it to be Draco! What sort of despicable person am I?” she cried, utterly distraught now. “It’s the eve of my wedding and there I am, on the verge of cheating on my fiancé with one man whilst thinking about _another_ , my ex of all people! Can you imagine how that makes me feel?” she whispered, a choking sob rising into her throat.

“Fairly shitty, I would think.” Ginny sat back, folding her arms and regarding Hermione with utter calm. “Though you’re being just a bit hard on yourself, aren’t you? It isn’t as if you actually cheated, not really. But that isn’t the point, is it. Seems to me one thing is obvious. You can’t go through with it.”

“But… but I must, mustn’t I? I mean… how can I disappoint everyone? I’ll break Ron’s heart if I back out now! And my _parents_. They’ve spent a bloody fortune on this wedding. I’ll be such a disappointment to them, I know I will, no matter what my dad said last night! And oh gods, all those guests who are expecting a wedding today! All those presents! Eight self-warming tea cosies!” 

Hermione began to laugh, but it was a shaky, near-hysterical laugh that quickly died away. “Those people are sitting out there right now, chatting to each other and expecting a perfectly lovely afternoon. What am I supposed to say to _them?_ ”

“I think perhaps you ought to talk to Ron first,” Luna remarked soothingly. “Shall I go fetch him?”

“No! Wait!” Hermione was close to panic now. “I’m not sure… I don’t know… I can’t…” She wrung her hands and then brought them to her face in complete dismay. “What should I do?”

“Hermione,” Ginny replied in her best no-nonsense voice, “you must cancel the wedding. Screw the expense and all the guests and their presents. All that is bollocks and you know it. And as for your parents, they wouldn’t want you to go through with a marriage that is clearly a mistake. And you know that too, don’t you?”

Hermione nodded, chastened, her shoulders hunched and tears rolling down her nose and spilling onto her fingers even as she tried to wipe them away.

“Right then. I’m going to go find Ron. You two need to talk,” Ginny told her firmly. “Splash a bit of water on your face. Your mascara is a mess.”

Just as she reached for the doorknob, however, a knock sounded.

Ginny shot a look of surprise at the other two girls and then pulled the door open.

“Ron! I was just–”

“Need to talk to Hermione, Gin. All right?” Ron muttered, peering around his sister and catching sight of his tearful fiancée, who was dejectedly pulling tissues from the box, mopping her face and blowing her very red nose.

Standing aside, Ginny allowed her brother entry, wordlessly signalling to Luna that they should make themselves scarce.

“Let’s take a walk, yeah?” Ron suggested. “I could do with a bit of air, I think.”

“Yes, okay,” Hermione faltered, getting to her feet and pulling her cloak around her shoulders. Draco’s cloak, she realised with a start. He hadn’t asked for it back and she’d held onto it, not even thinking what she was doing but continuing to wrap herself in its warmth and familiar, oddly comforting scent. Somehow, the realisation made what she knew she had to say to Ron both that much harder and absolutely inevitable.

The garden behind the restaurant was crisp with frost, the ground and all the shrubs and trees covered in lacy blankets of crystalline white that sparkled, rosy and golden, in the last rays of Solstice sunshine. With each step, the ground crunched underfoot, their breaths coming like curls of white mist in the cold air. They walked in silence for several minutes, and then Ron cleared his throat, looking distinctly on edge.

“Look, Hermione,” he began uneasily. “About last night...”

“Oh, Ron, I’m so sorry!” Hermione interrupted, tears puddling in her eyes once again. “I never meant for that to happen! You’ve got to believe me!”

“But it did happen, Hermione. And even if you didn’t mean for it to, you let it. How do you reckon that made me feel, seeing you and... and Cormac... together like that?”

“Pretty awful, I should imagine,” she said, feeling very small and wishing she could disappear altogether.

“Yeah. You could say that.” He gave a quick, harsh laugh and then stopped in his tracks and looked at her, his gaze unwavering now. His voice was low, ragged. “Bloody hell, Hermione! Why did you let him kiss you? The night before our _wedding_ , for fuck’s sake! How could you do that?”

“I... I was drunk, and I didn’t know what I was doing,” she began, and then stopped, feeling the heat of an unwanted, insistent blush. “No. That’s not true. I knew exactly what I was doing. Ron...” 

She took a deep, steadying breath and reached for his hand, suddenly feeling as if she needed to hold onto it for dear life.

“What I did was dreadful, unforgivable, and I’m so very, very sorry, because I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. But I can’t take it back. To pretend otherwise would be a lie, and I’m done lying – to myself, to you, and to everybody else. I know now that I could never be a fit wife for you. You need somebody who will love you with her whole heart. I do love you, Ron, but not... not that way. Not the way you deserve. I’m not that person. I wanted to be, truly I did. Desperately. But I’m not, and I don’t think I ever was, really.”

Ron had been listening, Hermione knew, but she had no idea what he was thinking. They had stopped walking and now he stood stiffly, his face like a mask, closed and impenetrable. Eventually, after several tense moments, he began to speak, his voice tight and dry and very low.

“I thought… I really thought it would be you and me together, through thick and thin. The way everyone else expected it would be from the start.” He kicked a pebble, sending it skittering along the ice-crusted stone path. “You fancied me too, I think, for a little while, anyway.” He glanced at her quickly and she nodded, eyes downcast. “But then you ran off with Malfoy, and I figured it was all up with us for good. When you lot split up, everybody seemed to think it was a really good idea, us getting together at last, so I thought, maybe... Reckon I heard it so much that I began to believe it too.” 

He sighed deeply, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re right, though. Something’s been off for a while now. Who knows, maybe since the beginning. I just didn’t want to know. Seeing you with Cormac last night… well… I got it, finally. Kind of a kick in the teeth, but I got it. Anyway, I'm no one to judge. To be honest, I've had thoughts along those lines myself.”

Hermione turned to look at him sharply, her eyes wide, and he nodded, heaving another sigh. 

"It really wasn’t on the cards after all, me and you, was it,” he said at last, with a small, rueful smile. “Not the right fit for either of us. Reckon we ought to call it a day. That’s what I came to tell you.”

“Yes,” she agreed, a profound sadness sweeping over her, but leaving in its wake a strange, unexpected lightness and peace. “But… we’ll always be friends, won’t we? Promise me we will. I couldn’t bear it if we weren’t!”

Ron grinned, and suddenly, it was the old Ron she’d always known. “Don’t be daft.” Glancing at his watch then, he frowned. “Bugger. We’re supposed to be getting married in twenty-five minutes. Better break the news to Mum and Dad, I reckon.” 

“Yes,” Hermione sighed. “Me too.” That would only be the first hurdle, she knew. Nearly two hundred people now sat in the large conservatory adjoining the dining room. They expected a wedding at four o’clock. Somehow, she would have to explain to them as well. 

Turning back towards the restaurant, she followed Ron, not noticing the tall figure in dark, impeccably tailored dress robes who stepped out from behind a large cluster of gorse bushes. There was a curiously thoughtful expression on his face, and just a ghost of a smile.

*

In the meantime, Hermione hurried in the direction of the dressing room, hoping her mother would be somewhere close by. Instead, she found both her parents in the foyer, looking apprehensive.

“Mum, Dad...” she began, a bit breathless. “Listen... I’m really sorry, but... well... the wedding’s off!”

If she had expected outright shock, she was disappointed. Neither Philip Granger nor his wife registered any real surprise. There was merely a slight tightening of her mother’s mouth, and the beginnings of a smile from her father.

Then they both spoke at the same time. 

“What’s happened?” collided with “Good!” And then Philip laid a calming hand on his wife’s arm, turning to his daughter.

“Hermione... was this decision a mutual one?”

“Yes. I’ve just talked to Ron and we agree.”

Philip nodded. His relief was evident now. “That’s good, at least. Less hurt that way. I’ll make the announcement, then, shall I?” 

Hermione seemed rooted to the spot, suddenly, paralysed by momentary indecision. 

“Yes. I mean no. I mean... I don’t know what I mean! What should I _do?_ ” she cried, wringing her hands.

Philip smiled and took his daughter’s hands in his, and immediately, the crazy, out-of-control spin the world was doing began to slow. “It’s all right, we’ll deal with all that in a moment. Just tell us one thing first, sweetheart. Have you considered this very carefully? Are you quite sure? Is _this_ the decision that will make you truly happy?” 

Hermione gazed into her father’s clear blue eyes, the warmth and pressure of his hands soothing and calming her, his steady strength an anchor she could always trust.

“Yes, Daddy. It is. I’ve no idea what’s next for me, but I know this is right. Marrying Ron would have been an awful mistake. I think maybe I was tired of being alone, and scared of it as well. It was nice having somebody to lean on, no surprises. But that was just it, you see, because... well... the whole thing... it was just too safe. Like a comfy old blanket. I thought that was what I wanted, but you can’t build a marriage on that, can you. Not a real marriage.”

“Wisely put, darling. You’ve really grown up, I see,” her mother said quietly, laying a gentle hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “Sometimes, to find real happiness, we must be willing to risk the occasional surprise, good or bad, don’t you think?”

_For better or worse..._

Hermione nodded, smiling tremulously at her mother through tears that welled up again. “I do now.” 

With that, she launched herself at both parents, enveloping them in a huge, very tight hug. Over her shoulder, Philip spotted Draco watching from a discreet distance. He winked at his former son-in-law, and Draco flashed him a quick smile in return, his gaze fixing on Hermione once again.

Just then, Cormac and Pansy came in. From the expressions on their faces, it was clear that they’d just heard the news, which had been spreading quite nicely on its own with no help from an official announcement. 

“Is it true, then?” Pansy breathed. “You and Ron are calling it off? Really?” There was a light in her eyes that had not been there in quite some time. 

A little of the same light was in Cormac’s eyes now as well. He stepped a bit closer, with a small, hopeful smile.

“So... you’re a free woman now, eh? What about the wedding, though? You’ve loads of people in there, waiting.”

“I know!” Hermione ran a hand distractedly through her hair, forgetting that its soft, flowing waves had been styled just so by Ginny. “It’s horribly embarrassing, but I suppose I’ll just have to tell them the truth.”

“Look, I’ve an idea. You’re short a groom. What about me, then? I can make you happy, I know I can. I’m willing to take the leap. What do you say?” 

His impetuous offer stunned Hermione into silence for a moment. Then she smiled wistfully. “Thank you for that lovely and very gallant offer, Cormac, but no. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us. You don’t love me, not really. One of these days, you’ll meet somebody and fall madly in love, and she’ll feel the same about you. Don’t settle like I nearly did.”

Reaching up on her tiptoes, she dropped a light kiss on his cheek and turned to see Draco striding purposefully towards her. The look on his face as he approached caused butterflies to erupt into crazy, freewheeling figure eights in her stomach.

Halting mere inches from her, he stood quietly and just looked at her as if he couldn’t get enough. His gaze pinioned her, his grey eyes luminous, alive with a thousand and one things he needed to tell her.

After what seemed an eternity, he whispered, “We need to talk. Right now.” 

Hermione nodded fervently, her heart somehow in her throat and banging in her chest at the same time. All around them, everyone seemed to melt away and disappear, until there was nobody and nothing except that moment and the man standing before her, holding her gaze with his own.

“Yes, please!” she breathed. “Draco, I –”

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry! I don’t know what else to say. I’m just so sorry. For being such a disappointment to you. Such a poor excuse for a wife. I don’t know how you stood me as long as you did!”

One side of his mouth quirked up in a crooked little smile. “No clue, darling. Reckon I was just a glutton for punishment.”

“Gosh, thanks!” Chagrined, Hermione couldn’t help laughing a little bit and blushing. “I suppose I deserved that.”

His answering chuckle was brief, but it warmed her. “You did, rather.” Then his smile faded, his eyes darkening with remembered pain and remorse that still stung. “I’m sorry too, Hermione,” he whispered. “More than I can say. I wish I could take it back, all of it! All the hurt. I never meant –”

“I know that now.”

“And I disappointed you too. I was a selfish arse at times. I didn’t know what real work was. Hell, I’d never had to think about it. My intentions were good, but I didn’t know what I was doing half the time. So much easier just to skive off. Looking back, you were right – it was really a token job anyway, if I’m going to be honest. My father was just humouring me. You sensed that from the off, didn’t you. That’s why you hated me doing it. Somehow you knew.”

Hermione nodded. “Yes. But I shouldn’t have been at you about it so much. As if it were your fault the job was a dead end. It’s just that I wanted so much more for you! And it frustrated me that you seemed okay with settling and doing so much less than you were capable of! I didn’t understand it. So, I… I got angry. And… and I was awful. And I drove you away.” Tears were threatening to fall once again, and she did nothing to stop them.

“I’m here now,” he said softly. “And there’s something I want to ask you.” He paused, seeming to take his courage in his hands, just as he now reached for Hermione’s and folded them in his own. He gazed at her intently, his eyes alight. “Do you think you might like to have another go? With me?”

Words failed her then. All she could do was nod fervently and smile through the tears that fell freely now. The radiance in that smile lit the room.

“I’m an awful mess,” she said at last, dabbing at her eyes, her voice still a bit quavery. “I’ve made so many mistakes! Are you sure?”

Draco grinned cheerfully. “Not in the least. But I’ll risk it. Will you?”

She nodded happily. But there was one thing more she had to know. “And... and you’re not doing this just so I can save face?”

Draco slipped his arms about her waist and pulled her close. “It’s a nice little face.”

The kiss that followed was five long years overdue. But those few, incendiary seconds, his soft mouth pressed hungrily to hers, more than made up for lost time, all at once a spectacular reminder of why she had fallen in love with Draco in the first place. And how fitting, too, Hermione found herself thinking, as Draco drew her even more tightly into his embrace, that such a remarkable thing should have happened on this day of all days. The Solstice was a time of new beginnings, and now this day, replete with light and hope, was uniquely theirs and always would be.

Sighing happily, Hermione rested her cheek against his chest and breathed deeply. There it was again, that delicious scent of his that she’d been missing. He was chuckling now, and she could feel the laughter deep in his chest. Then he took a step back, holding her away and smiling down at her.

“Right, then.” He was all business now, but it was a joyful business. “Put that frock of yours on and let’s do this!”

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

23 December  
Saturday, late morning

 

Bother. What was all that noise? Worse still, somebody was pulling open the shutters so that copious amounts of bright winter sunshine now streamed into the room through three tall windows, prying Hermione’s tired eyes open. Obstinately, she squeezed them shut again, pulling a pillow over her head in a futile attempt to block out the intrusive goings-on that had disturbed her sleep. What little sleep she’d had, anyway. Judging by how exhausted and sore she felt, there hadn’t been much. And now, there was a soft male voice in her ear, his warm breath tickling the softly curling tendrils of her hair like a caress.

“Coffee, love?”

The fog that had dulled her brain, induced by a fair amount of excellent champagne and a serious lack of sleep, now cleared in a sudden, quite forceful recollection of the last twenty-four hours. This was the morning after her wedding night. 

Merlin, Morgana, and Circe, it was true. She was married.

To _Malfoy._

_**Again.** _

And now, she was in his bed. And suddenly, every part of her life was different and new, having launched itself in an entirely unexpected and quite astonishing direction with breathless speed, by the mere utterance of two words: “I do.”

“Granger? Are you awake?” Her husband’s whisper was cautious but persistent.

 _Husband_ … what a singularly lovely word! And he was all hers. This time for good.

Slowly, she cracked open one eye and then the other, only to find Draco leaning over her with a cheeky grin, his eyes crinkling with amusement. 

“It’s about time, Sleepyhead! I’ve been up and about for the past hour and I’ll have you know I’m famished, but I waited for you.” Slipping out of his dressing gown, he sat down on the edge of the bed.

Hermione stretched, raising both arms high above her head, and then wriggled luxuriantly between the snow-white sheets. She couldn’t remember when she’d slept in a softer, more comfortable bed. Reaching for him, she drew him down beside her and tucked herself into the lee of his body, her arms and legs comfortably entwining with his as they spooned. One of his feet found its way to her left calf, his toes commencing an idle, meandering exploration there.

“Did you?” She smiled lazily and stretched once again. “How very chivalrous. I’m actually pretty hungry too, now you mention it. Do you… I mean, do _we_ have anything for breakfast, or shall we go out?”

Draco slipped an arm about her waist, pulling her closer so that he could nuzzle that sweet spot in the crook of her neck.

“We have eggs, cheese, bread, and some excellent coffee. Reckon we can do up something decent with that, don’t you think?”

Hermione was frankly incredulous. “Can you cook, then?”

“’Course I can. You don’t see any house-elves round here, do you?”

Hermione raised her head off the pillow just enough that she could scan the bedroom. She hadn’t really had time to inspect it – or any of Draco’s flat, for that matter – the night before. They’d arrived home from the wedding reception with only one thing in mind, and it had been a frantic and rather comical display of clothing being stripped off and tossed in all directions as fast as humanly possible, and then a desperate, hungry, limb-entangled collapse on the sitting room sofa. The king-sized bed was merely the final destination, with several protracted and quite delightful stops elsewhere along the way.

Now she looked around in the light of day and found that it was a very comfortable and inviting room indeed. The ceiling was high, marked by ornate, early nineteenth century-era mouldings. Oversized windows let in quite a lot of bright light, and the room’s generous proportions allowed for the large bed, a mahogany tallboy opposite it, a large, matching chest of drawers on one side beneath the windows and a fireplace on the other, where a very good fire now crackled cheerfully. There was an inviting chaise by the hearth, the perfect place for a quiet, fireside read on a winter afternoon. The room seemed made to order, with just the sort of calm, quiet beauty and grace that she would have aimed for, had she decorated it herself. If this was the bedroom, what must the rest of the flat look like? Suddenly, she was unbearably curious. And there were other things she wanted to know as well.

“Why _don’t_ you have any house-elves?”

Draco shrugged lightly. “I did, for a while. After we split up. I was… well… I was lonely, to tell the truth, and I really wasn’t much good at taking care of myself. Fairly pathetic, I know.” Laughing a little at himself, he rolled onto his back, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. “After you left, I moved home again, back to the Manor. And in one way, it was easy. But you know…” He rolled over onto his side again, cradling his cheek in the palm of his hand and gazing down at her thoughtfully. “I felt about ten years old most of the time. My mother babied me, for one thing. I know she meant well, but it was just too much after a while. And my father… well… he was my father. Overbearing, distant, and judgemental, as always. I had to get out. So I looked round and eventually found this place. It was on the market as sub-divided flats, but I made an offer for all of it, upstairs and down, and, well, here I am. I’m quite comfortable here. I hope you’ll feel the same. Of course, if you hate it,” he hastened to add, “we can always –” 

“No, no! I expect I’ll love it!” Hermione looked around the bedroom once again with newly appreciative eyes. “I already adore this room. It’s beautiful! Go on, Draco. You were saying? About the house-elves.”

“Oh, right, yeah. Well, after I moved in here – this was close to four years ago – I was pretty lonely, as I said. Rattling about this place all by myself… well, it got old pretty fast. I had friends round quite often, but it wasn’t the same as having somebody here all the time. Somebody to talk to. So my parents loaned me one of their house-elves, and for a year or so, I had him here with me.”

“Draco,” she interrupted suddenly. “Where exactly is ‘here,’ anyway? I could be wrong, but the way I remember last night, we Apparated straight here from the reception. I haven’t the faintest idea where we are!”

“This, my love, is Bloomsbury. Remember I told you when we met for lunch at the café that it’s one of my favourite parts of the city?”

She nodded avidly. It had been quite a surprise, that day, to discover that he’d voluntarily acquainted himself – quite intimately, too – with a part of Muggle London. 

“This is actually a small wizarding enclave within greater Bloomsbury. We’re in Wren Street. Later today, if you like, we can take a walk and I’ll show you round a bit. Just opposite, there’s a small park that, strangely enough, is also a cemetery. You can see it from our windows. Massive, old burial stones and sarcophagi mixed in with the gardens and trees. Sacred ground, that place… ancient… lots of secrets, I reckon.” He gave a small, involuntary shudder and then grinned self-consciously. “The four surrounding streets are where our sort live.”

Intriguing. Such a wonderfully quirky old neighbourhood, and it was quite literally right on her doorstep. What fun it would be, investigating its history. With a contented sigh, Hermione snuggled against Draco, a finger idly tracing patterns on the smooth, warm skin of his chest. “How’d you find out? That it’s a wizarding community, I mean?”

Slipping an arm around her, he rested his chin on the top of her head. “Word of mouth, mostly. Father mentioned it in passing when I told him I planned to find my own place. I think he approved, though he never actually came out and said so. Mother was a different story. She didn’t want me to leave. But once she twigged to the fact that I was going, whether she liked it or not, she mentioned a few areas where I’d find some of our people. Reckon she felt better, knowing that at least I’d be living amongst our own kind.”

“Understandable,” Hermione sighed. “Parents are like that. Protective. Mine have been, too. So… what happened to your house-elf? You never said.”

“Well,” Draco replied, “I decided, after a while, that it was about time I tried managing on my own. I think… I think I always held out hope that one day, I’d win you back somehow. And I wanted to prove to myself that I could be a man you’d be proud of.” He grinned crookedly. “Reckon I needed to grow up, finally, to do that. So… no more house-elf, no more arsing about in that bullshit job.”

This was completely unexpected. Hermione raised herself up on one elbow and stared openly. “You mean… you mean you don’t work for Malfoy Enterprises anymore? Really?”

Draco’s expression was supremely smug. “Nope.”

He paused, grinning wickedly, just long enough to thoroughly wind Hermione up. 

“What _are_ you doing, then?” she sputtered at last. “Tell me!” 

“Actually, I do potions research at St Mungo’s. Conditions brought on by curses. Incurable illnesses as well. Presumably incurable, anyway. I’ve always enjoyed potions work. Since first year, really.”

“I remember,” Hermione murmured, nodding. “It used to really annoy me when you got something wrong, because I knew that you of all people ought to have got it right.”

Draco laughed. “And I remember _that!_ You could never resist telling me, either, could you. You really were a pain in the arse at times.” Seeing the flush of indignation rising on her cheeks, he winked and leaned in to give her a kiss, whispering, “Especially because I knew you were right.”

Mollified, she grinned sheepishly, and he went on. “Anyway, it seemed a natural avenue to pursue. I’ve been there nearly three years now. I research conditions and then I work on formulating potions in response, test them, the lot. I really like the work, you know? I find it suits me. Working on my own, for one thing, not having somebody looking over my shoulder all the time. And I enjoy the challenge. It’s like one puzzle after another that needs solving.”

“Oh, Draco, this is fantastic! I’m so very pleased for you! And proud!” Hermione launched herself at him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him very tightly. “And you did it all on your own. Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” he whispered into her hair. “It means everything, you saying that.”

Just then, a rapping sound drew their attention to one of the tall windows. A large owl hovered there, flapping its wings, a rolled-up newspaper in its beak. Draco threw off the covers, and, completely at ease with his nakedness, sauntered over to the window, opening it just enough to retrieve the newspaper and then shutting it quickly against the chill air. He was quite an eyeful, and Hermione gave a low, appreciative whistle. Grinning broadly, he strolled back to bed, stretching out languorously against the pillows at last and shaking open the newspaper.

“Right, today’s Prophet,” he began and then murmured, “Come back here, you,” slinging an arm around Hermione and drawing her close once again. With studied casualness, he turned a few pages. “Hmm… I wonder if there’s anything of interest…” 

He turned a few more, slanting a mischievous look at his wife. And then his mouth curled in an amused smirk.

“There!” He opened the paper wider so she could see and then tapped at the centre of the right-hand page. “Have a look, darling. It’s us!” 

It was, not surprisingly, the Society and Styles page, Saturday edition. And there, encompassing the entire page, was the anticipated article accompanied by a large photo of the two of them, caught looking surprised and completely off-guard in the moment just after they’d exchanged their vows. Above the photo were the words, “Musical Grooms?? Surprise Nuptials for War Heroine and Her Ex.”

“Pansy and Cormac didn’t miss a trick, did they?” Hermione remarked, and then she giggled. “Gods, that was quite a moment, though, wasn’t it, when you turned up instead of Ron! I’ll never forget the looks on all those faces!”

Draco chuckled, rubbing his nose against her cheek and then pressing a tender kiss there. “Mmm... and that was quite an announcement you made as well: ‘Seven years ago, I did many of you out of a wedding. I’d like to make up for it now, if that’s all right!’ Hah! Reckon that’ll be one wedding nobody ever forgets!” 

Hermione couldn’t help giggling again. “Least of all your parents! The look on your father’s face...”

“Too right!” Draco let out an amused snort. “I reckon the last thing he expected yesterday was me turning up by Floo in the board room of Malfoy Enterprises, right in the middle of a meeting, and announcing we were getting married in ten minutes! Needless to say, he wasn’t keen. One of the few times, in fact, I’ve ever seen him completely gobsmacked. I didn’t even know if he would show.”

“But he did, in the end.”

“Yeah. Amazing. I’ve no doubt Mother had something to do with that. She manages to get her way with Father when she needs to. Always has done.”

“I think...” Hermione said softly, taking his hand and tracing small circles on it with her index finger. “I think your mother was glad, though, don’t you?”

Draco smiled at her tenderly and leaned over to kiss the top of her head. “I know she was.”

Indeed, the look on Narcissa Malfoy’s face had told her son everything in those final moments just before the ceremony started, when both Malfoys had suddenly materialised at the back of the conservatory at the Rose and Chalice. They had taken their seats just as the music swelled, and Draco had caught his mother’s eye for a fleeting moment. A quick smile and a nod from her, and he’d known.

“And,” Hermione added, laughing again, “I bet we gave Rita Skeeter quite a shock! Not exactly the story she was expecting.”

“No!” Draco grinned, shaking his head. “Much juicier! Reckon that’ll shut her up good and proper about Arthur Weasley. That and a little something else as well.”

Hermione turned to regard him curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he replied, the satisfied smirk back now and growing, “it seems McLaggen had got wind of a file Skeeter was holding. Inflammatory stuff – all lies, of course – on a whole load of people, Arthur included. Turns out she’d been blackmailing the lot, threatening to ‘expose’ them unless they gave her what she demanded in return. Generally some sort of exclusive scoop, access to inside information, that sort of stuff. She hadn’t got round to blackmailing Arthur only because I happened to hear about it beforehand and stepped in. Did you tell him, by the way? Does he know?”

Hermione shook her head. “I didn’t want to upset him and Molly, the whole family, really, just before... well, you know. Before.”

Draco nodded his agreement. “Well done. No need for him to know. I reckon he’s already dealing with it inside the Ministry, with the assumption that it isn’t public knowledge. Now, it won’t ever be.”

“Thanks to you! And yes, it has been brought to his attention at work. Internal affairs stuff. It’s been hard on him. He didn’t need to know it had got even worse. But...” She paused and frowned. “You still haven’t explained what you did to stop her for good.” 

He nodded. “Right. See, McLaggen knew he didn’t have the power behind him to expose her. And of course, his job would’ve been on the line if he’d spoken up. He couldn’t afford to chance it. So he kept quiet. But it’s different for me.”

“You’ve got the clout to do it.”

“Yes. And I’ve got nothing to lose. Nothing to risk. So... let’s keep it polite and just say that I _persuaded_ her to hand over the entire file to me. Which I’ve now destroyed. Spelled it in her office right in front of her, so it couldn’t ever be duplicated –” 

“Because she’s just sneaky enough to have tried something like that wandlessly,” Hermione snorted.

Draco’s mouth tightened. “Exactly. And then I incinerated the lot.” 

A powerful rush of tenderness and profound gratitude washed over Hermione, and now she pressed her cheek to Draco’s chest, twining her arms around him and holding him very tightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his skin. “You’ve no idea what this means. Not only to me, but to so many others. I love you so much!”

There was a pause.

“ _How_ much, exactly? I like things in precise measurements.” 

Hermione raised her head to look at Draco. His smile was innocent enough, but the decidedly wicked glint in his eyes clearly belied it. 

Smiling lazily in reply, she scooted up higher on his chest, settling herself comfortably along the length of his body and wriggling between his thighs. They pressed warmly against her, holding her firmly in place, and now she could feel his rather sizeable erection burgeoning beneath her belly. 

“I’ve always thought,” she murmured slyly, bending her head to give his left nipple a light, quick swipe with her tongue, “that it’s best to show rather than just tell. Don’t you agree?”

“I do indeed,” Draco replied, sucking in a sudden breath as his right nipple received a slightly rougher tonguing. 

“Mmm, I’ve missed this,” she breathed, the delightfully aromatic scent of his skin and hair rising around her like an irresistible perfume as she buried her face in the crook of his neck and began to nibble on the tender skin there. “You are positively delicious, Malfoy!”

That deep, rich laugh of his rumbled in his chest once again, and she looked up to see him shaking his head with amusement. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but never that! ‘Delicious,’ eh? Better than breakfast? Not hungry anymore, then?” he teased.

“Oh, but I am! Ravenous!” she whispered, a catch in her voice. 

Suddenly, and without warning, his eyes darkened. Slipping a hand around the back of her neck, he swiftly pulled her to him for a deep and urgent kiss. In that kiss were five years of longing, loneliness, and regrets, five years of stifled desire and buried need. 

Eventually, they broke apart, quite breathless. Rolling them over, Draco raised himself up on his elbows and gazed down at his bride. She lay there, her hair fanned out on the pillow, her cheeks flushed with pleasure and growing arousal and her eyes very bright. 

“You are so beautiful, do you know that?” he murmured, feeling almost dazed with the whirlwind of events that had brought her back into his life and hardly able to believe his own amazing good fortune. 

“That’s funny,” she replied softly, smiling up at him. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

And then she reached for him, holding him so tightly that they could feel their hearts beating in tandem. Everything else fell away, leaving only the island that was their bed and each separate moment of love, like a universe unto itself, bound by the certain knowledge that what they had together would never again be so foolishly, recklessly thrown away. 

“Welcome home, Mrs. Malfoy,” he whispered.

 

 

 

 

 

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/Dramione%20fic%20pics/?action=view%C2%A4t=Asos-Magazine-Photoshoots-tom-felton-32814216-1594-1063-2.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/Dramione%20fic%20pics/?action=view%C2%A4t=538238_441248879227341_140216402663925_1598134_1480811612_n-1-2.jpg)  
Draco and Hermione exactly as I imagine them in this story

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/Dramione%20fic%20pics/?action=view&current=CameraCafe.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/Dramione%20fic%20pics/?action=view&current=CameraCafe-2.jpg)  
The Camera Café, 44 Museum Street, London

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/Dramione%20fic%20pics/?action=view%C2%A4t=wren_street_bloomsbury_london_wc1x_93888116480512065.jpg)  
Draco's (and now Hermione's) house in Wren Street – the townhouse in the center with the blue door, just to the left of the red car 

 

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/Dramione%20fic%20pics/?action=view&current=656.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/Dramione%20fic%20pics/?action=view%C2%A4t=1229140_e103f2ea-1.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/Dramione%20fic%20pics/?action=view%C2%A4t=standrews-1.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/Dramione%20fic%20pics/?action=view%C2%A4t=PHOTO24_242-1.jpg)  
The gardens across from Draco and Hermione's house in Wren Street

 

 

FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

A/N: Immeasurable thanks to my lovely beta, mister_otter, for her keen eye, sensitivity, insight, and ever-intuitive understanding of what I’m aiming for and where the story is heading. We are always on the same page, and it’s consistently a joy, working together.

There are a couple of brief lines of dialogue towards the end of chapter eight that echo their iconic equivalents in the original movie. I wanted to pay homage to this classic film by including them here in a slightly altered form. Those of you familiar with “The Philadelphia Story” will recognize them, I’m sure.

 

“Love is lovelier the second time around.  
Still wonderful with both feet on the ground.”

These lyrics are from the song “The Second Time Around” by Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen. It was sung originally by Bing Crosby in the film “High Time” and was nominated for an Academy Award in 1960 for Best Original Song.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks and hugs to my marvelous beta, mister_otter! (More complete thanks will follow the final chapter!)
> 
> Disclaimer: I make no money from this story. Only the original characters and plot belong to me.


End file.
